Love Your Enemy
by RobotsMakeBetterLovers
Summary: AU. Bruce is 21, and desperate to find meaning in his shallow lifestyle. He decides to foster an orphan from the Narrows, not knowing he would witness the breaking point of the disturbed young man who would become his nemesis. Rating details inside.
1. Prologue

_DISCLAIMER: The only thing I claim as my own is the name "Andrew Starner." Anything you recognize is someone else's genius._

_If you want some more insight into the mind of Andrew, read my story called "Pokerface." _

_This is Version 2.0 of this chapter, so if you've read the story before you might want to do it again. It's changed a lot since I've been revising. _

_Reviews give you good karma; even the bad ones._

_RATED T for some language, mutilation, child abuse, and gore._

* * *

"Master Wayne! Master Wayne!" Bruce sat straight upright – he hadn't been sleeping. The night was too troubled for sleep.

"What is it, Alfred?"

"The first-floor parlour is on fire, Master Wayne. I've already called the fire department; we need to leave, now!" Bruce leapt from his bed and ran to the door, not bothering to pick up the shirt to his pajama set.

"Where's Andrew?"

Bruce sprinted down the hall to the boy's room and threw the door open.

"Andrew!" He wasn't there. Bruce's heart pounded in his throat – the boy could be anywhere, doing anything. He was responsible, Bruce knew, although he was ready to be proven wrong. He crossed the room and burst into the adjoining bathroom, slipping and almost falling as he entered. "Oh my GOD!"

He stood in a pool of blood. Blood was splattered on the pristine white tile, the walls, and the sink held an eerie pool of it. Rivers of it perforated the mirror. Three bloody fingertips had dashed a thick stripe of it across the glass. Bruce looked at his reflection, marred by the gruesome smile drawn upon it. The same bloody fingers had scrawled a chilling query above his head on the mirror.

_WHY SO SERIOUS?_

He turned and rushed from the room, leaving gory footprints behind him. He met Alfred at the door.

"Alfred, we need to find that kid. He could be anywhere…."

"You saw the bathroom, Master Wayne," Alfred said calmly, guiding Bruce toward the front of the house. "The boy's killed himself."

"You don't know that!"

"He's been threatening to do it for weeks. Think of yourself, for now, and get out of this house before it burns to the ground." They heard sirens in the distance, but Bruce's thoughts were not on them. He allowed himself to be led from the house, the boy's face in his mind.

_What was I thinking? I could never have saved him._

Andrew, how Bruce last saw him: scattered on the floor, blood dripping from his nose, his eyes frenzied.

_It was bound to happen._


	2. Magic Tricks

_Thanks for continuing to read - gimme some sugar!_

_This is Version 2.0 of this chapter, because I've decided to go back and rework this story (as well as finally finishing it). If you have any suggestions for me as I continue to revise, let me know in a review._

* * *

_Why did I do it? What made me think I could help that kid?_

Bruce flashed the warmest fake smile he could muster at Cathy Frank, the social worker, across the desk. "So, everything is in order?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne. You passed the screening and I am sure that you will make one of these children very happy. Fostering a child is a huge commitment, of course."

"Of course." Bruce continued smiling, trying not to focus on a hideous, flesh-coloured mole in between the woman's eyes.

"You said you wanted a child from Gotham, in particular?" she asked him, scrutinizing her computer screen. Bruce was quick to respond.

"Yes, absolutely. I feel a close bond to the city, and I want to do as much as I can to help the orphaned children here." Ms. Frank studied his face for a moment, something worrying her brow.

"Well. Here's a lovely young lady, twelve years old. She loves basketball, and has a fondness for animals."

"No pets. I don't like animals. Keep going." Ms. Frank sighed, and continued to describe the orphaned and abandoned children. Bruce listened, but was not stricken by any of them. He would just have to choose. Finally, she came to a name that made her pause.

"Oh, this one…. We have here a young man who has been in the system for quite some time. I'm sure you wouldn't be interested in him, however." She continued scrolling the list. Bruce was taken aback.

"Pardon?"

"Well, he's rather troubled – the past nine years have had him cycling in and out of foster homes because of his horrific behavior. You don't want this one. You'll have him back here in a month."

"Tell me about him." Bruce was stunned by the coldness with which the social worker treated the boy; certainly if she were trying to find homes for these kids she should try to represent them favorably. She raised her eyebrows.

"Alright. He's sixteen years old, very intelligent. He has a tendency toward self-mutilation, and is violent and antisocial with others. He is also a pyromaniac. Really, Mr. Wayne."

"Go on." She removed her small glasses and laid them on the desktop.

"This boy…he has been through a lot, to say the least, although he refuses to take antidepressants, or any medication, for that matter. He saw his mother murdered when he was seven, by his father. His father is in prison."

Bruce's heart raced. The boy saw his parents murdered in front of him, when he was seven.

"I think I would like to take that boy."

"Mr. Wayne!"

"No, Ms. Frank, really – I think I could help him. I think he needs someone who understands him." Ms. Frank pursed her lips.

"Mr. Wayne, I doubt you will understand him. I hope I never meet a person who does. Frankly, he's frightening." Bruce stood.

"What is his name?"

"Andrew Starner."

"Andrew Starner. I'd like to meet him." Ms. Frank looked doubtful.

"Well, Mr. Wayne, I suppose you're welcome to speak to him if you really think it's a possibility…."

They made their way upstairs in silence.

"_He saw his mother murdered when he was seven_…._"_

Here was a chance for Bruce to do some good, to do something to make his father proud. Help Gotham, the way he did, and he would be worthy of the name "Wayne." Bruce could help this Andrew Starner, however troubled he was; they would understand one another, he was sure of it. _Even if I can't help myself. _

The death of Joe Chill at the hands of the mob left Bruce feeling empty and useless. _What now?_

Rachel's words that night – _your father would be ashamed of you _– were the worst of all.

Here was a chance to prove her wrong…he hoped.

Upstairs, a six year old girl and her ragged stuffed kitten watched as a young man knelt before them, shuffling a deck of cards quickly and expertly.

"_Ta da_!" She smiled hugely and giggled as he produced her chosen card, the four of clubs. "You knoooow, I have a good friend who's _also _very good at tricks. _Wanna' meet him_?" he whispered, leaning close to her. She nodded, her blue eyes round with anticipation. He licked his lips and flipped the top card off the deck. "Here he is."

Andrew smiled down at his favorite card. The colorful jester smiled back up at him.

"This here's the _Joker_. He's not a _part_ of most games – he doesn't have a value…like the _other_ cards…." The little girl looked concerned and he raised a finger, cocking his head. "But that's okay! That means he can be what_ever_ he _wants_ to be. He makes up his own rules. He is completely _free_." He snapped his fingers and the card was gone.

She gaped at him.

"Free to _go_…wher_ever_ he _wants_ to." He picked up his foot to reveal the smiling joker hiding beneath it. "Free to _be_…whatever he _wants_ to be." He turned the card over and it became the ace of spades. "Aaaand he can be your _friend_, as he has been _mine_." He turned the card back into the Joker and gave it to her. She looked solemnly at the card in her hand.

"You mean I can keep him?" she ventured. He nodded, gnawing the inside of his cheek and raising his eyebrows good-naturedly. "But…if he's your friend, don't you need him?" He giggled and began shuffling his deck again.

"Ooohh, don't you worry about _meee_…. That Joker you got there has a brother." He pulled an identical card from her sleeve. The girl glowed, clapping her tiny hands, and, looking over her shoulder, Andrew noticed for the first time that a man and a woman stood watching him from the other side of the windows through which the children were observed. The woman he recognized (Ms. Frank, _that sour old bitch_), but the man he did not.

As the boy looked at Bruce through the window for the first time, Bruce smiled at him.

"You didn't mention that he was good with children. He seems like a nice enough guy." He shot a quick glare at Ms. Frank before looking back at Andrew, who was rising to his feet and replacing his cards in their box, his curly hair falling over his eyes, his shoulders hunched. "That little blonde girl certainly thinks so."

"Well, he is playful and…humorous, I suppose – if that's your sense of humor – so the younger children tend to like him," she admitted.

"He seems very clever."

"I wouldn't say that," she sniffed. "Intelligent, yes, but clever? I'd sooner call him…rude, frankly."

The door to the right of the windows opened and Andrew stepped jauntily toward them, still tucking his cards into his pocket. He draped an easy arm around Ms. Frank's shoulders, a gesture that made lines appear in her forehead and at the corners of her mouth. The cocky look on Andrew's face made it obvious that this was the desired effect.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your _friend_, Cathy? I _am_, after aaaall, one of your _fav_orite _cases_." She gingerly extracted herself from his arm and extended a thin hand to indicate Bruce.

"Andrew, this is Mr. Wayne. You know…_Bruce Wayne_." Andrew cocked his head.

"_Really_? That Mr. Wayne? Well, isn't _this_ a surprise," he lisped, looking Bruce up and down. His voice, husky yet nasal, held a sort of ominous playfulness that set Bruce's teeth on edge. He stuck out a hand. "A pleeeasure to make your ac_quaint_ance."

"Mr. Wayne is here to select _a child to foster_," she said slowly, her words dripping with "behave yourself." Andrew clapped his hands together.

"_Shopping_, are we? How charming! I _not_iced you looking at cute little Harley in there – she's a pretty cool kid – she's a little ex_cit_able, really res_ponds_ to magic tricks," he said, winking. Bruce smiled at him, shaking off the unsettlement brought on by the young man's voice.

_This kid is _weird.

"She is adorable, but I was watching you, actually." The mirth slid out of Andrew's eyes and he wet his lips.

_But not in a bad way._

"Really." The boy looked suddenly nervous, yet defensive. Bruce nodded.

"I think we could really learn a lot from one another, Andrew."

Ten minutes later, Bruce and Ms. Frank were again in the downstairs office. "Well. You can tell Andrew that I will pick him up on Thursday. Frankly, I'm appalled that you did not try to represent him more optimistically." Bruce surveyed the social worker coldly. "Where do I sign?"

Bruce was back in the office three days later. He sat in the waiting room while Andrew was summoned. A heavy-set janitor was mopping the tile floor. The blonde wooden door to Bruce's right opened, and the tall young man entered, followed by Ms. Frank and her narrowed, suspicious eyes. The boy licked his lips and cocked his head slightly to the right.

The boy's large, dark eyes were partially obscured by his hair, a tangled, oily mass of dark blonde curls. He sucked on the inside of his cheeks, working his mouth agitatedly. Ms. Frank rested her hand on Andrew's broad shoulder.

"Andrew, I want you to behave yourself, and be happy."

"_That's_ up to Mr. _Wayne_." He winked at Bruce and loped toward the door. The janitor watched him pass.

"Seeya' soon, Curly."

Andrew leered over his shoulder at the janitor, one eye narrowed, looking him up and down. He twisted around to raise his hand to the janitor, fingers curled into a gun. He grinned and flicked his wrist.

"_Pow_."

* * *

_Leave a review!_

_And no, I'm not going to do anymore with Harley as a little kid. It was just to add another layer of interest. You can use the concept if you want, but message me so I can see what you come up with. ;)_


	3. Hungry

_The songs used are "Creep" and "How Do You?" by Radiohead (_Pablo Honey_, 1993)_

_"Creep" has always made me think of Andrew. It'll show up again. I actually chose the song "How Do You?" because it comes right after "Creep" on the album, but after listening to the lyrics it fits perfectly. Weird._

_Reviews give you good karma._

_This is Version 2.0 of this chapter, because I've decided to go back and rework this story (as well as finally finishing it). If you have any suggestions for me as I continue to revise, let me know in a review._

* * *

Bruce took his seat at the dinner table and frowned at the empty place across from him.

"Alfred, did you tell Andrew that dinner was ready?"

"I did, sir. He told me he wasn't interested." Alfred raised his eyebrows at Bruce. It had been obvious the previous day, when Alfred and Andrew were introduced, that Alfred did not think highly of the boy.

Alfred had come out to the car to help with Andrew's bags, and, although he had approached with a courteous smile, his face stiffened slightly as he noticed the stringy hair, the holes in the jeans, the Converse sneakers somehow held together by threads, the tilted posture. He had recovered gracefully, however, and introduced himself to Andrew as elegantly as ever; but the tiny moment was obviously not lost on Andrew, who sucked his cheek and smiled darkly, raising his eyebrows.

"_Very _nice to meet you, _sirrr_... I can already tell we have a _lot _in _common_."

Bruce had watched in horror as an enmity was born, Alfred and Andrew both masking utter repulsion for the other.

"I'll go get him," Bruce said, balling up his napkin and placing it on the table next to his plate. He rose from the table and crossed the room.

"Master Wayne, I'm sure he would prefer to be left alone. He's in a new place; he's shy."

"Didn't seem shy yesterday, did he?" Bruce smiled at Alfred, who cast him a dark look.

"Well, I do try to be polite."

"I'll just check on him." Bruce left the room and headed upstairs to the room Andrew had picked out. Andrew had surveyed the house with an air of aloofness during the tour, but Bruce could see in his narrowed eyes that he was impressed. Andrew had turned to him and looked him straight in the eyes for the first time, and Bruce noticed that the kid was wearing a thin smear of black eyeliner. He had been momentarily distracted.

"I don't _think _I've ever _been _in a building this…big." He smacked his tongue in the corner of his mouth. "I'll have to leave _bread_crumbs so I won't get _lost_." He giggled, then, but Bruce saw nervousness in his eyes.

The kid was very private, Bruce learned, and didn't like to give very much away.

Still, he was vulnerable. He had vulnerable eyes.

Bruce reached the boy's bedroom, where he could hear music playing.

_Whatever makes you happy  
Whatever you want  
You're so fucking special  
I wish I was special_

He knocked on the door, and the radio clicked off. The door was flung wide, and Andrew leaned on the frame, looking sideways at Bruce. He licked his chapped lips.

"Well, hel_lo_." Bruce smiled at him. Andrew twitched one of his eyebrows upward. "I'm not…really…_hungry_," he crooned.

"I would like it if you would eat with Alfred and me." The boy giggled incongruously. "Or, I could have a plate brought up if you like." Andrew stopped laughing and sighed gutturally, rolling his eyes. He straightened up, no longer leaning on the doorframe, and put one hand behind his back, gesturing with the other.

"_Really_, Bruce, uh…. Can I call you _Bruce_?" Bruce stared at him. "I would pre_fer_ if I were left to my own, ahh, _devices_ right now." He snickered. "I'm _not_ hungry." Bruce opened his mouth slightly, puzzled. There was a pause.

"Andrew," he ventured, "why are you laughing?" The smile slid from Andrew's face.

"You mean…why do I _laugh _when nothing's _funny_?"

"Exactly."

Andrew smiled coldly again and crossed his arms, one wrist playfully resting under his chin. His phony smile didn't touch his hooded eyes.

"That's a very, very complex question, _Brucey_." Bruce's stomach cooled by a few degrees and he felt a slight pang of disgust. "I suppose the best answer is, '_Why not_?'" He dropped his arms from his chest and took a step closer to Bruce so that their faces were inches apart. Andrew's chocolate brown eyes were unreadable, this time. "Why so _serious_?" he growled. He grinned.

As Bruce studied the boy's face, he noticed a tiny scar at the corner of his mouth, as if his cheek had torn a little from opening his mouth too wide. Bruce smiled at him as warmly as he could. "If you get hungry later, we can heat something up for you." Andrew twitched his shoulders in mock delight.

"Sounds great. Seeya' then!" He turned on his heel and pranced back into his room. "Close the _door_, would you, sugar?"

Bruce closed the door and ventured back to the dining room, his heart sinking with every step.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

Andrew heard the door quietly click closed behind him. The flirtatious smile on his lips fell, and, standing in the middle of the room, he stared at the wall in front of him.

He had been in a lot of families, but he had never been rich before: not like _this_.

He had never had a butler (and, he was sure, the _butler _had never seen anyone like him - that much was obvious from the expression on the old man's face). Andrew had never even desired to be so rich. He hated money. He hated people with money. And Bruce had more money than anyone in Gotham.

_All they care about…is _money_._

The rich kids at school looked down their straight noses at his Salvation Army clothes, fingering their Ralph Lauren lapels. He wanted to carve into their pristine, smug faces….

He balled his fists in his hair and slapped the radio back on. The tape he was listening to before ran again.

He hated thinking like this. Thinking about _hurting _people.

_But I'm a creep  
I'm a weirdo_

Sometimes he just couldn't help himself.

His thoughts raced, spinning around and pinning him back like some deranged carnival ride.

_What the hell am I doing here  
I don't belong here  
I don't belong here_

The next song ran. He felt sick.

_i dont want to think about blood or knives or BLOOD i have to stop thinking like this this is what they put me away for before and i want to carve them up i CANT go back there i cant i cant i cant why do i do this to myself they deserve to die and so do you STOP IT i don't want to go back but hell send me back he will HE WILL!_

His thoughts and memory surged with blood, gushing from the lashes on his back and legs. His memory bloomed black with bruises and broken bones. His father was evident in the back of his mind, _prowling_, faceless and formless. Mostly Andrew could _smell _him, could smell the exotic blend of motor oil, leather, and Jack Daniels. A hand erupted from the darkness and closed on his throat. And, as quickly as the memory had come, it was gone, and Andrew stood in the middle of his room with his own hand clenching the collar of his shirt.

"Stop…it…." he murmured to himself. Sometimes he did this - sometimes his world raced through him like wind through a net. The music charged on, chaotic guitars singing all around him. He bent over double and shook his head violently. He sat suddenly on the ground. "_Jesus_, Andrew..."

_He's bitter and twisted  
He knows what he wants  
He wants to be loved and he wants to belong_

He wondered how long it would be before Bruce was hauling him back to the Child Services office. It never took long.

They always hated him, these _kind _people who took in disturbed children.

_He wants us to listen, he wants us to weep  
And he was a stupid baby who turned into a powerful freak_

They were never ready for a child like _him_.


	4. Beautiful

_Thanks for continuing to read! This is Version 2.0 of this chapter – I'm slowly getting back up to speed on this story._

_Reviews give you good karma. Even bad ones._

* * *

A doorbell sounded from somewhere in the house.

Scissors sliced through heavy purple fabric.

Andrew, concentrating on the fluid motion of the cut, hardly noticed the doorbell. As a human being, standing alone, he was ugly. But he created beautiful things, and it was from his art that he drew his value. This was his logic, and he clung to it.

Some people were impressed when he told him that he made many of his own clothes. Others, usually his foster parents, were concerned. _Andrew, your clothes are so ragged. Why don't we go clothes shopping?_

"I _like _them that way," he said to himself, licking and gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he sawed through the cloth. The nagging voice from his memory persisted.

_Oh, but certainly you would like some _new _clothes. Wouldn't you like to wear what everyone else wears? _Agitated, Andrew clipped violently forward, and pain bloomed in his right hand. He growled and dropped his project. Blood fell to the purple fabric, turning black and spreading splotchily outward. He appraised the injury with mild interest - "Hmm." - a chopped piece of skin fell away from a gash under his thumb. Not bad, but would need a bandage. He didn't mind the pain, either. Pain was definite, pain was pure. Pain was a distraction when he needed one. And when he could feel nothing else, he could still feel physical pain.

He had been distracted by the words of Gretchen, his most recent foster mother. _Conformist bitch_.

She was among those who found Andrew _disturbing:_ "_Such a _strange _young man_."

_Then _why _did you take me innn? Did you think you could _change _me? _He remembered his last day as a part of her household:

"Don't be soooo _pat_ronizing - you act like you _rescued me _from something! _Look _at you, asserting your morality out of some misplaced sense of _self-righteousness_..." Her husband Harold threatened to take him back to the agency. Andrew laughed in their faces and didn't stop giggling breathlessly until they marched him into the lobby and that same damn janitor gave him that same smug look.

"Back so soon, Curly?"

"_Fuck you!_"

He rose from his place on the floor and left his room. As he moved down the hall he cradled his hand, trying to prevent blood from getting on the carpet. The precious, expensive carpet. Looking at it, Andrew did not see the person who rounded the corner ahead of him.

"Oh, you must be - oh my god!" Andrew looked up to see who spoke to him, and stopped walking. He felt his jaw slacken and chills shoot through his feet.

A _beautiful _young woman was rushing toward him, her arms outstretched. He had never seen her before, and any smartass comment he might have thought to say was stuck, lost in the gears of his mind. He was suddenly unbelievably aware of the handful of blood that had spilled onto the sleeve of his shirt, and unbelievably aware of the crook in his back.

"Here, let me help you. What happened to your _hand_?" The woman took his injured hand in hers (Andrew's stomach turned over - her skin was so _soft_) and led him toward the bathroom.

"I can _do _it, don't _wor_ry about it…." He allowed himself to be pulled along, only half-pretending to not want to go with her.

"But what happened?"

"I - _uh _- got _cut_," he said quietly, chewing on his lower lip. The woman laughed.

"I see that…. Here we are." She led him into the bathroom and began rummaging through a drawer. "Sit down." He sat gingerly, watching her carefully from behind as she searched for bandages. "What's your name?"

"Uh-Andrew." She smiled to herself, although Andrew could not imagine what about.

_Oh my god. She's a babe._

She found what she was looking for and knelt in front of him, taking his hand and beginning to patch the wound he had created. "I'm Rachel. I take it you're the boy that Bruce is fostering?" Her voice and the touch of her hands on his made Andrew's throat twist into knots.

"Yeah," he croaked. She glanced up at him, no longer smiling. Her brow furrowed and she said nothing. "You - you're a friend of his?"

"An old friend."

"I haven't seen you...around." Again, she paused.

"So Bruce has taken you in. How's that going?" She tore off a piece of tape and looked at him, concerned. "Is he any good?" Andrew giggled nervously.

"I don't - really - _know _him, yet. I mean. It hasn't even been two weeks." Rachel finished taping the bandage and straightened up, meeting Andrew's eyes. He looked away.

"You okay, Andrew?" She tilted her head to look at him again, and he stood up, avoiding her gaze.

"Yeah. Look, Bruce is _nice _and everything…." He paused, and Rachel sighed, smiling slightly.

"That's okay. Don't worry about it," she said, reaching up to straighten the hair over his eyes. He caught a tantalizing breeze of fragrance from her wrist and his stomach trembled. "I'll probably be coming around a lot from now on, so…just…. You know. We can talk." Andrew's heart sighed.

"Rachel?" She and Andrew looked at the doorway, where Bruce was now standing, perplexed by the scene in the bathroom: his old friend, looking concerned, stood face to face with the antisocial teenager, who looked sheepish and, inexplicably, bloodstained.

"I have to go," Andrew mumbled, pushing past Bruce and heading down the hall. He and Rachel were silent for a moment.

"What was that about?" Bruce said, indicating the bandages in Rachel's hand. She shrugged.

"I…he said he got cut." Bruce's stomach chilled as he remembered what Ms. Frank had said about Andrew having a tendency to cut himself. He hadn't noticed anything, yet. "What are you doing, Bruce?"

"What? Rachel, what are _you _doing? It's been months since I've seen you." She laughed mirthlessly.

"I came here because I heard that Bruce Wayne was fostering a child. I was hoping to ask you what the hell you were thinking, Bruce."

"I want to help someone, Rachel."

"You're not helping that boy if you don't know what you're _doing_," she spluttered. Bruce was suddenly ashamed. "I understand if you want to help him, but I don't know that you can. A child isn't a project, Bruce!" Bruce closed his eyes, gathering his confidence.

"Look. I _know _I can help him. I'm sure of it. He and I - we have things in common."

"You have nothing in common, I can tell by _looking _at him! He was wearing eyeliner, for god's sake."

"We're both orphans," Bruce interrupted. Rachel's mouth fell open. Realization began to fall into place behind her eyes. "I think that I can help him. I haven't gotten very far yet, but he's…defensive. In fact, he's incredibly rude to me, and to _Alfred_, especially…." Rachel was shocked.

"Rude? Really?"

"Absolutely."

"But he seemed so shy." Bruce laughed.

"_Shy_? You're kidding. Jesus, sometimes I _wish _he were shy. Antisocial, sometimes, but certainly not shy."

"You need help, Bruce," Rachel said gently.

"What do you mean, I 'need help?'"

"You're a twenty-one year old bachelor, Bruce," she laughed. Bruce smiled - the tension between them was broken. "You aren't a parent."

"Are you going to help me?"

"I suppose I don't have a choice. I won't just stand by and watch you neglect this kid, and he was perfectly nice to _me_…."

"He likes to be left alone, much of the time, but when he's not locked in his room he's either making sarcastic remarks to me or baiting Alfred." There was a pause, and Bruce realized that Rachel was smiling at him. He melted a little inside.

"I missed you, Bruce."

Bruce was silent. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing he was - thinking about the last time they saw one another.

_Your father would be ashamed of you. _

Whether she was thinking it or not, she probably was not going to bring it up. And neither was he.


End file.
